The Mariners of Old
by Lorelis
Summary: "The downfall of Númenor was the pride and ego of Man, which ravaged and sullied her blessed lands. I stand here as a testimony to my foremother Tar-Míriel's sacrifice, and I have learnt from her mistakes; I am Rómeniel, Daughter of the Uprising, and I shall bow to no Man!”
1. Lottery

The Eastern lands of Middle-earth have always fascinated me— they are mysterious, for Tolkien told us next to nothing about the histories and cultures of these places and its people. I have attempted to work with a few tidbits of canonical information to weave a tale that can hopefully help in tying up a few loose ends; the fate of the Black Númenóreans, the Blue Wizards, the clime and culture of the lands East, and the resistance of those peoples to the dominance of Sauron are all themes I have tried to work into the story.

It should be mentioned that this story takes place in the year TA 2327. At this point in the history of Middle-earth, Rohan has yet to be established, and Sauron has fled from Dol Guldur, marking the beginning of the years of Watchful Peace. Aragorn I (the namesake of Aragorn II Elessar) is Chieftain of the Dúnedain. In my conceptions, Aranion is his heir, born in TA 2290, and Araglas, the younger son, in TA 2296. This story follows the adventures of Aranion son of Aragorn I, his travels in the eastern lands of Middle-earth, and his tryst with the Black Númenóreans.

I claim no ownership over any matter related to Tolkien's Legendarium. I earn no money from the writing of this story, undertaken merely to tie a few loose ends together.

"The great cape and land-locked firth of Umbar had been Númenórean land since the days of old; but it was a stronghold of the King's Men, who were afterwards called the Black Númenóreans... Their race swiftly dwindled or became merged with the men of Middle-earth," — J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, _Appendix 'A'._

[See end of chapter for notes and translations.]

* * *

 **1.**

Aranion the Lightfoot was not called so for finesse in the arts of Dúnedain jig-dancing, —though, of course, it can be said here that he was rather proficient at that, too— he was a wanderer of the perilous lands, the captain of a lone-manned ship that sailed the wrathful sands of the east, and the keeper of strange secrets.

His comings and goings were unaccounted for by friend and foe alike. The grey of his eyes and the grey of his garb melted into the shadows of twilight, and long he wandered, lonely as a cloud, seldom seen by any. But when kindled, he shone with the light of Elbereth's stars within his eyes and heart.

His brother, Araglas, often laughingly told him that he fell into everything heart over head, and he would chuckle resignedly, agreeing— he was a man of passions, quick to temper but also to empathy.

His childhood was spent under the vines of Imladris' countless bubbling springs and waterfalls. Even as he approached his thirty-seventh year he would often return to that spot of his adolescence beside the Anorlîn, a mere that shone with sun-kissed foam, hand trailing lazily in the water as his mind wandered through the sands of time.

He turned over, bringing his wet hand to his face. Droplets of water fell onto his closed eyelids, and he sighed through upturned lips. The mere rippled with the tinkling music of the wind-chimes hung in the boughs of the weeping willows that surrounded the dell. A cuckoo picked up her sweet, unbroken call, and a water vole rippled his way across the shining waters with his tiny paws, peeking above the surface with little button eyes.

"It is good to see you again, pîn-meldir," he called out to the vole, who perhaps inclined his little head at the acknowledgment. Aranion laughed, dropping his book onto his chest as he curled up on his bed of moss.

"What, Limdal? Corresponding with the animals, I see? It is no wonder that your kinsmen think it is we who have put such whimsies into you," a sweet, clear voice called laughingly, like the ringing of a silver bell. Aranion grinned, getting to his feet, brushing the dried leaves off his breeches.

"I cannot dispute that. Living amongst you elves has certainly addled my wits somewhat," he retorted, fastening his cloak at his collarbone as he rose to meet the owner of the voice, with a smile on his face.

An ellon stood at the mere creek, boot against the bark of a willow. He was tall, slender and delicate-boned. His hair was the silver that was the wont of the Teleri, falling to his waist in a thick braid, as if to keep it out of his face. He was clad in riding breeches and boots, the rustic greens and browns melting seemlessly into the surroundings.

The pair grinned at each other in mirth, moving to tightly embrace.

"Ai, Falmarin, old friend, it has been an age!" murmured Aranion as he clasped the elf by the forearm, surveying him with bright eyes.

"Truly? It felt more like a... week, perhaps? But you know how time often fails to make her presence known among the Firstborn," Falmarin said, with an impassive look upon his face that could've fooled most men, but to the seasoned observer, the impish glint in his eyes gave him away.

"You have not changed in your condescending ways, my friend," Aranion laughed, "come, sit with me a while. I have much to tell you."

"As do I, Aranion. But the Lord Elrond has asked that I summon you. It seems that he has matters of importance to discuss; I am housed in the south wing, and I would much appreciate your company after you have attended to your matters and I have washed away this grime," Falmarin said, gesturing to his tunic cuffs that were caked with mud, and his cloak that was stained with grass and dirt.

"Of course. Has the company's journey been smooth?" asked Aranion, worry set in his eyes. It was not often that an elf allowed himself to be caught in such a disheveled state, from which stemmed the root of his worries. He hoped the company had not suffered any ill fate. Word had been sent that Lady Celebrían would be traveling back to Imladris with her company after spending three years in her mother's home, Lothlórien, being also Falmarin's birthplace.

"Yes, smooth enough, I presume. We had a skirmish with a band of yrch a few hours ere our arrival. The situation would have been grim had we not met the Lord Glorfindel's company. along the way. The droeg did not make a show, however; It makes me deeply uneasy. The beasts have been quiet as of late, and it is much unlike them to become docile all of a sudden," Falmarin shook his head, "I like it not when foul things hide away to conspire in the darkness, it cannot mean anything good," he continued, as they set a brisk pace towards the House.

"I shall enquire about this matter with my kin when I ride out to them. It certainly is unusual," commented Aranion, furrowing his brows.

His thoughts moved elsewhere, as he trailed his hands along the gleaming white railings that twirled their way to the main doorway of the west wing. He wondered what his foster father wanted to discuss so urgently, seeing as his wife had but moments ago returned to him after a long sojourn.

"Do not worry, I am sure that he has not summoned you to convey any ill tidings," said the ever-perceptive Falmarin, sensing that his friend's thoughts had shifted onto other matters. He laid a hand on Aranion's shoulder, reassuringly, as they walked towards the doorway. "I shall leave you here, Aranion. Trust that I shall see you in an hour's time?"

Aranion responded in kind, smiling at his friend. He followed the railing along to the doorway, entering and passing by several balconies that were occupied by the Lady Celebrían's Ladies-in-waiting, some of the ellyth of Imladris, and some of the Galadhrim. They sat in the budding sunshine of the later days of Echuir, weaving the wicker-baskets that would hold fruit and flowers for the upcoming fest of the elvish Mettarë and Yestarë.

He soon reached the mighty, yet delicately carved oaken doors of Elrond's study, which were, as was the wont, swung wide open. It spoke legions about the amount of trust the elves placed in one another, rarely making use of screens and doors. Elrond, as Lord of his people, showed great hospitality to those who wished to seek his counsel, and kept his doors open to all.

Aranion paused for a moment, running his hands through his hair to make sure he had gotten rid of the leaves. He glanced at his reflection in the ornate looking glass that was hung outside the study. The unfailing grey of his eyes, that all of Isildur's line had received through their distant Ñoldorin ancestry met his sight. He pursed his lips, anxiously, hand upon the panelled oak.

"Golodh, it is I," he announced, trying to shaking himself out of his thoughts.

"Ah, Aranion! Come, child. Join us on the balcony," came Elrond's voice, and Aranion followed it to the study's adjoining balcony.

A low balustrade fenced off the island, entwined with flowering vines. Two slender statues acted as sentinels at the doorway, both carved in the likenesses of elven maidens with doves poised to take flight in their outstretched hands. A snow-white loveseat sat against the wall, carved of marble, and strewn with numerous silks and cushions. Upon this reclined the Lady Celebrían and the Lord Elrond.

Celebrían stood, and embraced him lovingly. "Tithen-pen, how I have missed you!"

"I have missed you far more, naneth," he said softly, clasping Celebrían's hand in his. His own mother had died in childbirth, while bringing his beloved brother into the world. The Lady Celebrían had been the most prominent maternal figure in his life since, and he loved her deeply. As for Celebrían, she treated him as she did her own children, and kept him always in her thoughts and prayers.

Elrond looked upon his wife and foster-son with a smile that held great emotion. His eyes shone with the striking grey of Tinúviel's kin that graced Aranion's own, but held the weight of millennia of sorrow. It was a look that often overwhelmed this child of the Atani, however great his lineage may be. It reminded him of just how insignificant his life was in comparison to these mighty Children of the Stars, immortal, wise and lofty beyond the words of mortal Men.

As if sensing the line of his thought, Celebrían, who had inherited some of her mother's ability to peer into the minds of others, kissed his temple, hands still clasping his.

"Dearest child," she murmured, "Your path may be unclear yet, but it is no doubt one of deep significance, as is only fitting of the blood that runs through your veins."

Aranion was stunned into silence. To be told, in all but words, that his foster parents had some foreknowledge of his fate made him apprehensive, and more than a little excited.

"This matter, indeed, is the reason I have summoned you here," said Elrond, placing a hand on Aranion's shoulder in a placating gesture.

"Why reveal it to me now, after all these years?" he asked, befuddled, a tinge if bitterness lacing his voice, at the fact that something so deeply relevant to his very existence was kept under the folds.

"Fortune reveals itself when the time is ripe; neither too early, nor too late," Elrond said, unperturbed Aranion's expression. He reached into the pocket of his robe, pulling out a scroll of creamy white paper, tied with a slender braided rope of silver and gold.

"My Lady mother bid me give you this," said Celebrían, and taking the scroll from her husband, pressed it into Aranion's hands.

Aranion traced the smooth surface of the parchment with his thumb. He wondered why he had been given a message written on such fine parchment— he knew better than most that the Elves had a certain flair for pomp and aesthetics, but they were not wasteful, as such.

He slowly undid the soft rope, which glittered as he held it to the sun. Elven hair, he thought in amazement. His curiosity only grew as he gently folded out the strangely crease-less parchment.

It was no letter.

It was a map.

* * *

Translations and Notes:

Aranion: lit. "Royal son"; heir apparent to Aragorn I, fifth Chieftain of the Dúnedain.

Araglas: lit. "Royal joy"; second son of Aragorn I, brother to Aranion.

Anorlîn: lit. "Sun-mere".

pîn-meldir: lit. "little-friend".

Falmarin: lit. "Sea-spirit", "Sea-nymph" (Quenya)

Limdal: lit. "Swiftfoot", "Lightfoot"; Aranion's epessë.

yrch: orcs

droeg: wargs

Echuir: the season of Stirring, that falls before Spring in the Reckoning of the elves of Imladris. It is the last season of the year.

Mettarë: the last day of the year, which falls at the beginning of Spring in the Reckoning of the Elves, and close to the Winter Solstice in the Reckoning of the Númenóreans.

Yestarë: the first day of the New Year, falling also on the first day of Spring according to the Elves' Reckoning. Presumably a time of celebration and festivities.

Golodh: lit. "Teacher of Lore", "Lore-master"; Used to refer to one of the Ñoldo, but since there is no word for "teacher" in Sindarin or Quenya, I have elected to use it. Poetic license. A wonderful thing, isn't she?

Tithen-pen: lit. "Little-one"

Naneth: lit. "mother"

It is to be noted that all translations are bound to be riddled with inaccuracies as I am no scholar of the Elvish Tongues. Whatever little information I have comes from The Silmarillion's _Index of Names_ or Parf Edhellen, the online Elvish dictionary.

The Dúnedain, unlike their other Atani counterparts, used Sindarin (or some dialect of it) instead of Westron for daily speech. Since it would be pretty pointless to write a book entirely in Sindarin (which, to set the record straight, I am most definitely not capable of doing), I have sprinkled a few garbled phrases in Sindarin here and there.


	2. Vitality

The information we have about the geography of the eastern lands of Middle-earth is little; even the information that is given is inconsistent and vague—we are given names of a scarce few relief features, so, when writing of these places, I'll try to keep the nomenclature at a minimum, and when required, will try to assemble together my fragmented Sindarin to make apt names. Again, it goes without saying that there is no guarantee of accuracy in any translation or nomenclature that is not Tolkien's own.

* * *

 **2.**

The map was not one of lands familiar to Aranion; he gleaned that it was of Rhûn and the lands beyond it. He was at a loss as to what a map of the Rhûn lands could possibly mean to him— and, as Elrond seemed to imply, it was something deeply significant.

The map was artfully made, its edges being adorned with sapphire and emerald ink motifs of flowers, trees, and vines. There were various animal figures; mighty cat-like animals with striped skin, birds with great, flowing plumages, and one he recognised: an Annabon, with pointed tusks. The sun also appeared at various points, woven into the intricate designs with a skilful hand. The patterns were so fine and delicate; there was no doubt about it: this was certainly the work of one of the Firstborn. The sheer intricacy of it was what identified it as the handiwork of the elves, but the patterns themselves were not like anything he had seen in the art of Imladris, Lothlórien, Eryn Lasgalen or even Mithlond.

The map itself was detailed, unlike most maps of the East that he had seen before. He could clearly trace the path through Mirkwood, which lead to the Sea of Rhûn, along the Celduin's course. Beyond the Sea of Rhûn lay many lakes and glens, remnants of the mighty Sea of Helcar that was drained into the land in the War of Wrath the Valar waged against Morgoth in years so far they were incomprehensible to both mortal and immortal.

Further Eastward, these lakes lead to the great range of the Red Mountains, or the Orocarni as it was called in the days of old. There was no sign of the Cuiviénen, as he had expected. It was believed that it had either been destroyed in the War of Wrath, or, if it existed at all, could not be found by mortal man.

There was some sort of imposing finality to the simple fact that he was holding this strange artifact in his hands. It was a strange feeling, and Aranion shuddered slightly.

"Where did the Lady Galadriel come by this map?" he asked, brows furrowed.

"It was given to her by a traveler, who told her that she would know when the time was ripe to pass it on to one who needed it most," Celebrían replied, softly.

"What would she have me do?" he asked, biting back the 'with this strange map' that threatened to escape, for fear of sounding impudent.

Elrond smiled gently anyway, as though he had understood the underlying sentiment. "Aranion, do you not understand yet?" he replied.

"I... I have a feeling I do, yes," whispered Aranion, his eyes widening, "she would have me scale these dark lands, and to what end? Death is all that awaits me, should I be foolish enough to undertake this pointless journey!"

Both Lord and Lady looked on their foster son with gentleness and patience, but Aranion, in his befuddlement, mistook it for pity. "And you know this— you would willingly let one you call your own walk into the very arms of a gruesome death with nothing but pity to offer me as a parting gift!"

As is often said, if the millennia have taught the elves one thing, it is patience insurmountable. Thus did Elrond patiently clasp Aranion's hands in his own: "Nay, dear one. We do not offer you pity, nor do we harken to send you to your own death. We simply act as the messengers for the will of the All-father. What has been commanded of us, we have done; now, it is for you to let the course of history play out— whether you would partake in it is your choice alone."

"Though we now live free from the fear of evil, it is only temporary. Once the wound has been opened, it festers until it is cleansed and sewn shut once and for all. The darkness still lives on, though it now torments the eastern lands. The Cruel One is biding his time and rallying his allies, he soon will take upon a new form, more terrible and powerful than ever before. Unless the people of the east are persuaded to resist him, he and his minions will destroy all that is sacred upon the face of this land. What we ask of you is no simple task, that we know, but it is of the greatest importance that only one of the hardy Line of Isildur might undertake. You may not understand the purpose yet, but answers shall come to you," he continued.

"You feel it, do you not? The call of fate is powerful, my son," Celebrían said, softly.

Aranion could barely speak through the lump that had formed in his throat. Indeed, he could feel something, a deep-seated part of his soul, that told him that, undoubtedly, this was the right path. He managed a nod, signifying his assent. "Yes, my heart tells me it is my destiny; but all that is rational in my being tells me it would be utter foolishness—" he paused, grinding the metal toe of his boot against the floor in anger.

"I know not how any words I utter can change the minds of those barbaric animals that inhabit the lands of the East. They would sooner harken to the words of their Master, one whom they have served from their very creation. I wish nothing but death upon those people, and I am sure they should wish the same for me," he said, bitterly.

"Those are harsh words, Son of Aragorn, and unwisely spoken. Do not be so swift to judge those who you have never encountered in the short years of your life. It would do you well to remember that not all are born into privilege as you, and if they turn to the darkness, it is oft because they do not have another choice. In the eyes of the All-father, all the Children, whether they be the Firstborn or the Followers, are created equal. There is light in all beings created under His will," said Elrond, his eyes set with grimness.

Aranion was greatly taken aback at this. In all the years he had resided in the House of Elrond, the gentle, kind elf had never so much as come close to anger. Receiving such a thorough chastisement was something he certainly did not expect, and he regretted letting his passions fly away with his tongue.

"I apologize. I am most deeply ashamed," he whispered, hanging his head. And he truly was. Aranion had never thought about in that perspective, and he knew, that once he was in the space of mind to ponder on this valuable piece of wisdom, it would forevermore change the way he viewed the world.

In fact, he had the strangest feeling that the events that had occurred today would have a great impact on his life, which was slightly unnerving. He gritted his teeth as he thought of the perils that lay before him. Worry and fear clouded his mind, which increased his shame. _I am of the noble blood of Númenor_ , he told himself, _what have I to be afraid of?_

But his doubts prevailed. Indeed, how could they not? The Lands of the West he had braved; but then at least he'd had a basic idea of the terrain. In the East, despite having a questionably detailed map, all that awaited him were legions upon legions of mysterious lands, hostile people, and even the Dark Lord himself.

"Can I not take counsel with this traveler you spoke of? Where does he reside? I would speak with one who has scaled these lands," Aranion said, faintly.

"He is long gone, where no mortal man can reach," murmured Elrond.

Aranion felt the knots of nerves further grip his gut as his prospects got bleaker with every word that passed. Mystery shrouded every question that arose in his mind, mingling with his anger until he was near nauseous.

Celebrían pressed a cool hand to his forehead, her voice a lilting murmur, "I beg you, do not fret, beloved. The blessings of the Eldar go with you, and no harm shall come your way as long as you remain true of heart."

"Shall I... ever see you again?" asked Aranion, his mind a torrent of dread and self-pity.

"Your path is clear to none but yourself, child. It shall take great strength of spirit to conquer such a task as has been laid upon you, but it is not impossible. Unlikely as it is, we may yet meet again," said Celebrían, holding him in a warm embrace that smelled of lilies and rain. Home, Aranion realised, with a jerk. He could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

The very thought of losing his beloved foster parents sent a spear of ice through his heart. He let one tear fall, and it rolled down his cheek as his mind was filled with a sadness so deep it was almost tangible. He did not dare to hope.

"Alámenë, yonya." said Celebrían, pressing a kiss to his forehead,

"Hantanyel órenyallo," he whispered back, gently pulling out of the embrace as he turned to face the setting sun, painting the Valley various shades of gold in her dying light. He whispered a prayer to her, one that remained, untarnished by time, potent in his memories for long years to come.

A _iya, Arien! Hail, Golden Lady of the Sun! I travel now to the lands few men of the West have seen; the lands where you shine bright and sublime—I ask that you watch over my path, protect my steps, and keep me from peril, Fiery One._

He felt a resounding pull within him, as though he had been heard. At that moment, the sun made her final dip beyond the horizon, bathing the valley in molten copper and russet, as though a great sea of blood had been drained over it. The bright silver light of a young Ëarendil and the ruddy sheen of Arien's fading glory stitched a tapestry of light so beautiful, and so sprightly they danced upon his features; silver and red, weaving a mask over his face, as though reflecting the dichotomy his mind faced. And yet, he stood as tall, beautiful, proud and terrible as the old Kings of Númenor, though in place of the winged diadem he was crowned with the intermingled lights of the East and West.

"There is much that is Holy yet, in Arda Marred," said Elrond, glancing at the twilight shrouded horizon. "its sanctity, or what little is left of it, must be preserved at all costs. It is simply how things are; the law of the universe. All things must run their course, for so runs the very nature of existence,"

Aranion said nothing, though his eyes raged tempestuous, like a roaring sea reflecting a storm-bearing sky. "I shall do it," he muttered, quietly.

He was silent for a time, pondering his lot. After a while, the Lord and Lady rose, hand in hand as they looked upon their foster son.

"Anything that you need of us, we shall give. Would you tarry here and take counsel? Or do you desire to begin your journey at the break of dawn on the morrow?" asked Elrond.

"I shall ride out to my kin and take counsel with my father," Aranion said softly, though his expression remained unwavering.

Elrond grasped his hand, squeezing it lightly. "Go, now, dear one. The days ahead are long and uncertain, and you shall need all the rest and peace Imladris can give you,"

Aranion obliged, making his way out of the study, feeling strangely lightheaded.

He walked slowly through the halls where he had played, laughed and cried as a child. Imladris; the beautiful valley where he had been born. He was leaving, but was it for good? This feeling of liberation, surely, it was not normal? Was he acting too restlessly? Perhaps he should stay and take counsel for a while...

 _Tarrying does naught but harm, and besides, when have you cared for planning and biding time? You rush headlong into most things— it is better to draw the shard out of the wound at once rather than letting it fester in the blood._

While his heart was filled with melancholy on one side, the other yearned to the set foot in the Wilds yet again. He had made an immediate decision to take counsel with his kin before he set forth, which he still stood by. After all, what could the elves who had never set foot in the lands East know of the perils that lay there? His father scaled the lands far and wide. Answers he would be able to provide, and wise one at that.

Lost though he was in thought, his feet took him to his rooms in the west wing. He twisted the ornate door handle, which shone with inlaid iridescent mother-of-pearl.

As he entered, his attention was drawn to a slender box of velvet sitting on his bed. He took it in his hands, curiously. The box held a silver circlet, sitting amongst swathes of royal blue velvet. The silver was moulded into strong, angular curves. Two bands on either side interconnected to hold a pendant of diamond at the centre, which glittered in the darkness of twilight. It was inlaid with a band of Tengwar runes at its base; it was a crown fit to grace the head of an elvish princeling. Aranion gazed at it in wonder and delight. Surely, this was one of the heirlooms of his house, for such craftsmanship could only be of the Númenóreans. How his little brother Araglas would marvel at it! He had always been the one among them that was fond of jewels and other bright things of the like.

Araglas, he realised with a start. If he was unlikely to Elrond again, there was a strong chance that he would never look upon the face his beloved brother again for as long as he lived. He clutched the box so tightly, his knuckles turned near white in pressure, the velvet creasing. He glanced towards the ceiling, incredulity at the predicament he was stuck in numbing his mind. Ada, he realised, tears smarting his eyes as he shook his head.

He laid down upon the coverlets then, grief slowly creeping its cold hands into the strange unfeelingness that had seized him. He did not have the energy to even weep. His mind could not handle more conflict, and he soon fell into a disturbed sleep that held troubled dreams.

* * *

Translations and Notes:

Annabon: [Sindarin] lit. "Long snout"; The colossal animals the hobbits call Oliphaunts, and the Haradrim, Mûmakil.

Eryn Lasgalen: lit. "Wood of Greenleaves"; the elves' name for Mirkwood.

Mithlond: lit. "The Grey Havens"; the westernmost land of Middle-earth, where Círdan the Shipwright resided.

Cuiviénen: the lake beside which lay the land of the Elves' first awakening, Palisor, in the far east of Middle-earth. It was from here that the elves first made the journey to the Undying Lands.

Celduin: lit. "River Running"; a river which originated from the Lonely Mountain, and flowed through Mirkwood and Dorwinion to pass into the great inland Sea of Rhûn.

Alámanë, yonya: [Quenya] Our blessings go with you, my son; blessings were often said in Quenya, the sacred tongue of the elves.

Hantanyel órenyallo: [Quenya] I thank you from my heart

Arien: the Maia, a Spirit of Fire, who carried the vessel of the sun.

Ëarendil: the Evening Star, most beloved star of the elves.

ada: [informal] father

hröa: body, or the vessel of the fëa

fëa: soul

I guess that Aranion's initial reaction to this whole quest business should be justified, seeing as it might come off as very uncharacteristic for one of the hardy Rangers of the North. Remember, at this point, he is just 37 years old, and still somewhat of an adolescent in the eyes of both the Dúnedain, who lived a lifespan nearly thrice that of other men, and the immortal elves, who, of course, consider even those nigh to a hundred, children. Taking this into consideration, it is understandable that he would be very unwilling to take a perilous quest into the Eastern lands (where Sauron was known to have been hiding) upon himself. While he has traveled extensively in the West (as I said, he was not given the epessë "Lightfoot" for being proficient at dancing), almost no man who enters the Eastern lands comes out unscathed.


	3. Janus

On the matter concerning Aranion's fostering in Imladris: I do not think it is unreasonable to presume that Aranion would have been made aware of his true lineage much sooner than Aragorn (Elsessar) had, because there was no real danger of the Enemy discovering he was of the Line of Isildur in the Years of Watchful Peace. I also believe that the heirlooms of the Númenóreans, though few, were more than just the Ring of Barahir, the Shards of Narsil and the Sceptre. The circlet could have belonged to one of the Lords of Andúinië, preserved through the ages, in the safekeeping of Elrond.

It is also mentioned in _The Tale of Aldarion and Erendis_ from Unfinished Tales that Númenórean men came of age when they had reached twenty-five summers, so for one of the Dúnedain I would assume that it would have been reduced to twenty summers.

On the Ways of the Rangers: the Rangers of the North presumably traveled and scouted in groups of thirty, stationed around Eriador. The information about their equipment and horses I got from an article on The One Ring by the user Melthavron, titled ' _What Were the Rangers of the North Like?' —_ This article was an absolute godsend.

* * *

 **3.**

Aranion lay on the coverlets of his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was painted with flowing curves of emerald green, all looping around each other to form geometrical patterns that, though symmetrical, were gentle and delicate in their slopes. _Some poor elf slaved away at this millennia ago. Mayhap he still resides here, painting away the years that take no toll on him, through many a mortal life._

The way the Firstborn lived their lives was so strange, he mused. They had no cares for the toils and troubles of the earthly beings; no fear that they would never be able to reunite with their loved ones at the end of all things. And amongst them, here he was, saying his last goodbyes to all he held dear upon the face of Arda, with little hopes of reunion, and no promise of an earthly paradise bereft of sorrows.

His family, his home, his people. _His people_.

He was reminded of the time when he had reached twenty summers, and had come of age. It was then that the true nature of what it meant to be of the Line of Isildur was finally revealed to him. He would be the leader of his people, the protector of the innocent, healer of wounded fëar, the breathing edifice of the glory of Númenor long sunk.

And so he travelled the West, familiarizing himself with those lands and its people, scouting and killing off the wicked beasts that threatened them. He had trained long and hard in the arts of healing, herb lore, botany and poultice-making, as was apt of the healing powers that ran in his bloodline; years and years he had sweated and disciplined himself to become the Chieftain his people deserved. Was that all for nothing? For surely now he could not even dream of leading the Dúnedain, as he had often done in the years past. He had come to understand that it was his birthright; to forsake it, for any cause, no matter how much it would benefit the greater good, was a bitter potion to swallow. Young as he was, his pride still stood as strong as a sprightly bough, and was untouched by the trials of time. To forgo his very identity was no easy task for one born with the blood of a leader.

And then he remembered his father— Aragorn, he who showed humility in all he did; he who would forsake all matters of pride and livelihood for the welfare of his people. "It is not righteousness and pride that built kingdoms, my son," he had said to Aranion once.

 _Nay_ , he breathed. _What a terrible leader I would have made, one who is not willing to renounce a mere title to aid the fight of_ _virtue_ _over darkness_ _, hellfire and eternal wrath_ _!_

He pulled himself off the bed with great difficulty, plodding along to the desk that stood in the corner of his room. He opened a drawer, and emptied its contents onto the rug beside him. It was a strange rug, woven of multi-coloured rags and scraps. He and a girl of the Dúnedain, Miluiel, had woven it together with chubby, five-year old fingers. He and Miluiel had remained fast friends, though many speculated the relationship between them was something more. _It could have blossomed into something more, too, had I but a few years!_

He mentally chastised himself for getting distracted, lowering himself down beside the rug. He intended to make piles of the things he wanted to carry, which was no easy task. Suddenly, a knock sounded a the door, and Falmarin's voice called his name.

He rose to his feet, hastening towards the door. As he opened it, Falmarin's eyes widened on seeing his friend's rugged form. His swollen eyes and tired countenance betrayed that something was very wrong, indeed.

"By the Sea and Stars! Aranion, what is the matter? What has worked you into such a state? Was it ill news that Elrond bore, contrary to my predictions?" he said, worry lining his brows.

"I have not the faintest idea what one would call this kind of news, my friend," Aranion murmured, moving back to his position beside the rug. Falmarin's eyes further widened as he took in the splayed contents of the drawer.

"I shall go with you."

"Would that it could be so!" replied Aranion. "Would that it could be so. Nay, my friend. This journey I shall have to undertake on my own."

He then proceeded to inform Falmarin of the quest he had undertaken upon himself. After a few minutes of silence, Falmarin turned to him, eyes flashing.

"You would give up hope so easily, then? Hope is what has kept these lands from doom and despair. Hardy blood runs through your veins; do not take that lightly, Aranion. Trust and hope shall be your only adversaries upon this path, and should you forsake them, you shall dig your own grave," he asked, voice strained.

"The east has for me naught but hostility and grave perils. If I shall have to return, I shall need more than this hope you speak of. I shall need great fortune, but ofttimes she is blind, and cannot be trusted upon. Nay, I have no trust in fortune, nor should I say she favours those in need of her,"

"That may be so, but it will do you good to remember that you are not omnipotent, Aranion. You know not the end of things, for the All-father shares but pittances of what He has planned for Arda. Or do you truly wish to accept your own death so docilely, as a roach succumbs to a stamping? Where has your fiery spirit drowned, that you so despair?"

Aranion gave no answer, anger tightly coiling in his gut. _Like a roach, indeed_! He closed his eyes, biting back the bitterness that threatened to spew from his mouth. He did not have the time for quarreling as though he were a boy of three summers. He instead chose to hold his arms out to his friend. Falmarin accepted the embrace, and they sat like that for a while, silently consumed in their own thoughts. Aranion was in conflict— did he truly have any chance of returning? _Not while your mind is uncertain_ , he reminded himself. _Most battles are won or lost in the mind._

He looked up at Falmarin, and a cloud of self-doubt and uncertainty seemed to lift from his eyes.

"Now, enough of this. My father would have my hide if he were to see how I have been moping instead of making preparations. Come, Falmarin. I would require your acute practicality in deciding what to take and what to leave behind," he said.

Falmarin smiled brightly. He squeezed Aranion's shoulder, "Certainly. We cannot have you dragging behind the whole of Imladris with you, can we?"

"Nay, indeed!" laughed Aranion, and the pair of them set to work till the grey light of dawn began to filter its way through the light embroidered muslin that was pulled over the windows.

* * *

"Ai, it is dawn already! You ought to have retired hours ago. It will do you no good to set forth addled with fatigue," said Falmarin, worriedly.

"Any attempt at getting sleep tonight would have been in vain; my mind is too driven with adrenaline for rest. Besides, I must have nodded off for a few hours after returning from Elrond's study. Worry not, us Rangers can function perfectly well without a mere night's sleep. We are a hardy folk," said Aranion, laughter entering his eyes.

"If you gloat anymore, you shall turn into a dwarf," Falmarin murmured under his breath.

"And you are one to talk! Us elves feel not the effects of time, us elves need not a wink of sleep, us elves stink not after spending a year in the Wilds, us elves—"

"Mercy, Limdal! I surrender!" said Falmarin, throwing his head back in laughter. He grasped Aranion's hand, squeezing as he moved to stand from where he was seated beside the rug.

"I shall leave you now. Tarry not, Aranion, if you wish to visit your kin before you take the path into the east. I shall saddle Lissuin and check his packs. Come soon,"

"I have but to lace my boots. I shall be with you in a moment," Aranion replied.

Falmarin shut the door behind him, and Aranion glanced around his room, though not without a little sadness. Most of the wardrobe had been upturned. He'd chosen to carry one formal tunic, and a pair of breeches to match. As the women in his life liked to say, one could never be sure when an occasion for finery would present itself.

The circlet sat snug in its box, at the very bottom of his pack. As a reminder of home he carried a little wooden figurine of a sparrow Araglas had carved for him as they'd sat together beside the dying embers of their fire while out on a patrol. He ran his thumb over the rough wood, sighing as he wrapped it in his spare tunic.

He moved to the rug, and tore off a piece, which he tied to his belt. On his belt were also hung the usual pouches of dried Athelas, which was something he could not pick in the wild as it grew only in lands of previous Númenórean inhabitation. Knapped ginger he kept as for stomach ailments. His sword sat in its scabbard, strapped to his belt. A knife hung alongside it. He had another knife lodged in the bottom of his left boot. His bow and quiver behind were slung over his back– like unforeseen events that called for finery, opportunity for long-distance combat tended to spring upon those caught unawares, which was not something he intended to do. He shouldered the soft leather strap of the quiver, pursing his lips grimly.

He checked his pack for the last time— flint and steel, a whetstone, slender coils of rope and twine, a pocket-sized box of a salt-spice mix, a lump of fat wrapped in strips of linen, lengths of clean wool and linen, a fur-lined cloak, an extra tunic or two, extra braies and leggings, needles and strong thread, strips of dried meat in pouches, and a flask each of water and strong alcohol (for disinfection as well as indulgence, Falmarin had atoned, in an effort to make light the near-oppressive gloom that had entered the room). Everything seemed to be in order. He placed his map, rolled back and tied, atop his spare cloak, and surveyed his reflection in the small looking-glass that adorned the vanity. _And it is not improbable that this is the last looking-glass you will ever encounter_ , he told himself morosely.

He was clad in the garb that was the wont of the Rangers of the North; greens and browns, high, supple leather boots, and a hooded cloak fastened with the star-shaped pin that identified him as one of the Dúnedain.

He rolled back his shoulders, breathing in deeply. It was now or never.

He did not spare the room another glance, striding over to the door as he wrenched it open, and walked out before he had another chance to work himself back into a fit of uncertainty and despair.

He did not tarry in the halls, having said his goodbyes to the elves of the Last Homely House the previous night. They had been curious, and had certainly understood that he was not leaving on any normal scouting mission; he would not be saying his farewells if he was. Their fine-tuned consciousnesses knew this Heir of Isildur walked now a path of mighty peril, and lamented much for Aranion was well-loved among the people of Imladris.

He received smiles from all those he passed, though he barely stopped to return the gestures, lost as he was in melancholic thoughts.

He soon made his way to the stables, where resided the fine-bred, proud and mighty elvish horses of the valley. Among these he soon found Lissuin, his dark-haired stallion, already saddled and fitted with his packs.

"Mín men hi medh rhûn, Lissuin," he whispered, as he laid a hand on the horse's wet muzzle. He burrowed into Aranion's hand affectionately, neighing. Aranion stroked the backs of his ears as he stamped at the ground, clearly restless and eager to be on the move.

Aranion smiled at his eagerness. "If only I shared some of your enthusiasm, this journey would be half as taxing as it promises to be,"

He took Lissuin's reins, leading him out of the stables. He had already been fed his grain, and had been well-brushed. Although his coat did not shimmer in the sunlight like those of the fine-haired elvish horses, he stood tall and proud, a true and hardy horse worthy of a Ranger. Together, both horse and rider made their way to the doorstep of the House. Upon it stood the Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían, their sons and a few elves of the House.

Elrond stepped forward, and clasped Aranion's hands. "You go with the blessings of who reside in this valley. Trust your heart, my son. Answers shall come to you under the stars, or so I foresee it. Ride hard, Son of Aragorn, and despair not, for love oft lies in the most unexpected places. And do not lose hope— our paths may cross yet. The future is uncertain to all but the One,"

Something inside of him lightened— did he dare to believe he would one day be able to return? Was he not the Master of his own Fate? His resolve strengthened— the East was perilous, yes. There was a strong chance he would not return, and yet, as Falmarin had said, hope had not forsaken the Dúnedain yet, and it would not forsake him. Death was inevitable, but he would be damned his corpse lay among enemies instead of friends.

Celebrían next laid a kiss upon his brow, "May the Kindler's stars shine upon your path, yonya,"

He smiled at the kind, gentle soul who had taken the place of his mother, fairer than moonshine and as sweet as the summer. _Hope_ , his heart cried. _Have hope_.

The Sons of Elrond embraced him.

"Worry not about Araglas, dear brother. We shall keep him in line while you are gone," said Elladan, and Aranion returned his grin, with a renewed fervour in his eyes.

Elrohir pressed a flask inlaid with runes and flowering vines into his hand. "It is Miruvor. May it strengthen your spirit when all else quails,"

"Thank you," whispered Aranion, clutching the flask with a tight grip.

The Lord Glorfindel spoke with him next. "Tell me, which road do you intend to follow?"

"I would take counsel with my kin before I turn East, so I shall head towards the High Pass where adar's company is stationed. After that, I shall make for the Pass nigh to Isengard, and over the Brown Lands, into Rhûn. Would you advise me otherwise?" said Aranion.

"Nay, it is a good route that you have settled upon. It is certainly not wise to take the High Pass, overrun with foul creatures as it is. Ride swift, Aranion. Have faith, and do not be reckless," said Glorfindel, pressing his shoulder reassuringly.

He exchanged a few words with the rest of the members of the House. Last he came to Falmarin, and embraced him. "I shall miss you dearly, old friend," said Aranion hoarsely.

"As shall I, Aranion. Go now, and remember that though you shall not be among us physically, you are always in our thoughts, hearts and prayers. I shall await your arrival; if it is not to be, I wish you the brightest skies and the sweetest songs for all the years to come," said Falmarin, and Aranion felt a sheen of tears glazing his eyes.

He shook his head once, and a rueful smile came upon his face. The Lord Elrond looked into his eyes then, and nodded.

It was time to depart.

He mounted Lissuin, sparing a glance at the House and her people.

He spurred the horse into a trot, and in his heart he knew he would face much toil if at all he were to cross the path of Last Homely House west of the Mountains again.

* * *

Translations and Notes:

Mín men hi medh rhûn: Our path now goes east, Lissuin. This a very rough translation— I can actually feel those among us who speak Sindarin recoiling in horror (You know, I never did claim to be the Gandalf of linguistics).


	4. Cream & Mantle

The phrase "Echuir does whatever it wishes to do" was inspired by the Dutch saying, "April does whatever it wishes to do".

Also, a bit of subtle Shakespeare-esque commentary on brooding, wise men, and weeping philosophers, inspired in part by Gratiano's speech from the first act of the Merchant of Venice. I adore his dialogue, and its easy dismissal as being "two grains of wheat hidden in two bushels of chaff" irks me to no end. But anyway, I digress—

[See end of chapter for translations and replies to guest reviews.]

* * *

 **4.**

The sky shone a bright forget-me-not blue, and fat clouds filled with the promise of rain to come sailed overhead. The sun shone unceasingly upon his face, though he was glad of the warmth.

"Echuir does whatever it wishes to do," he muttered, glancing up at the sky. The air was ripe with the smells that accompanied the advent of early spring.

The heady perfumes of blooming flowers invaded his senses, and it mingled sweetly with the smell of wet grass. The very air of Imladris seemed to be laced with a perpetual petrichor; the rich, brown mud, the green grasses and the bubbling springs all gleamed as though they had been freshly watered with a mild rain.

He inhaled deeply, letting his head fall back. His afflictions seemed to fade away with the feelings of liberation and joy this budding season brought with her.

He soon climbed the paths leading out of the valley with the steady canter Lissuin set. The horse was used to steep ascents, having been bred in the Dúnedain villages under the shadow of the Hithaeglir. Aside from this, Lussuin was familiar with the path, having traversed it many a time while bearing Aranion during his patrols.

Aranion intended to make for the foothills of the mountains, around the High Pass. This was where the chief company of the Dúnedain were stationed, as the majority of activity of the Yrch tended to be focused in this region. His father lead this particular company; Aranion and Araglas served under him, and, if the ways of the Rangers were known to gentler society, it could be said that they apprenticed under him. Much of Aranion's skill in the subjects of hunting, tracking, swordplay, archery and wilder-lore had been acquired under the expert tutelage of his father. Aragorn, albeit young by the reckoning of the Dúnedain, was wise and shrewd, though not dour and brooding as is oft the case with men of intellect. He was quick to mirth, and had all the frivolity of youth, though with a good measure of wits about him. He was not one to fester in melancholy, as Aranion often did. Araglas held the most in likeness to their father in character— practical, yet passionate.

People, when exasperated with Aranion, often said he had inherited much of Aragorn's passions, and next to none of his sense. This was untrue: Aranion possessed a good measure of intellect, but his emotions tended to cloud over his rationale. He had much to learn, like a fledgling who has hastily flapped his wings, without knowledge of the direction, in overeagerness for flight and freedom.

 _Ever the weeping philosopher_ , he chastised himself, _it has not yet been a day, and you have already begun to brood_.

By then, many an hour had passed. He had climbed out of the Valley of Imladris, scaling the steep paths through the morning. He'd had the last view of the House of Elrond, sunlight gleaming off the white marble visible even in the distance. He did not prolong overmuch at that point, and rode on. It was now late evening. He had entered the infertile plains that lead to the mountains; the scent of heather now prevailed in the air.

Among the tufts of heather he spotted the season's first dandelion, a harbinger of spring. Dandelion tubers, when cooked, tasted not unlike potato— which, in a Ranger's view, served more purpose than mere ornamentation, however delicate the white flower was. But it was not as though he would be eating dandelion stew anytime soon: he had packs laden with fresh loaves of bread, wedges of cheese and fruit from the elves. He had supped an hour ago, while Lissuin grazed— a simple yet hearty meal of fruit and bread. The cheese would hold yet for a month or two, if kept in its waterproof moleskin, and he did not want to break into his stores of dried meat as of yet.

"Daro, Lissuin," he whispered, posture relaxing as the horse came to a halt. He brought his boot over the side, dismounting with ease.

A small dale lay bathed in the moonlight before him, shallow pools of water glistening at its centre. It was shrouded by brittle, leafless trees on either side; though the water, likely rainwater, was unfit for drinking, would be adequate for washing as it still looked to be fresh. It would do for the night's rest.

He stretched his arms towards the sky, easing the tension in his back as his joints audibly loosened, making him cringe. A day, and his joints already complained like those of a wizened, rheumatic hag. He did not think he would ever get accustomed to the early days of traveling.

Shaking his head, he moved to untie the saddlebags. Lissuin nickered when he saw the apple Aranion had fished out from the bags, and butted his nose towards him. Aranion laughed, running his hands through the horse's mane as he pulled out his pocketknife from his belt. He plucked out the core of the apple, and sliced it into two broad halves, which he offered to the horse.

He made quick work of picking the horse's hooves and brushing down his mane, while Lissuin munched on the apple. After seeing to the horse, Aranion moved to largest of the rainwater ponds, kneeling on the dirt beside it. He dunked his hands in the water, and undid his hair from the leather tie that had held it in a braid. He splashed the cold water on his face, closing his eyes as he relished in the crisp refreshment it brought. Soaking a washcloth, he brought it to his face and neck, and wiped away the sweat.

After he had finished his toilette, he sat against the bark of one of the trees that lined the dale. Lissuin grazed along the ponds, and his saddlebags lay beside the tree. Aranion fished through his pack for his comb. It was made of white wood, and the handle was etched with a thread of interlinking Mallorn leaves, gleaming golden in the darkness. All of its teeth were intact, unlike the old comb Aranion had carried, which sported several missing teeth. This new comb was a gift from Falmarin.

"It is not as delicate as it appears," Falmarin had laughed, when Aranion had quipped that it would be better suited to sail through a maiden's smooth locks than a Ranger's matted mane. Aranion had pretended to eye it dubiously, though he knew, better than most, how Elvish handicrafts, albeit beautiful, were more than mere trinkets.

He ran the comb through his hair, and it hardly caught on the knots, passing through them easily. Aranion kept his hair longer than most of the Dúnedain men; it flowed over his shoulders, reaching mid-forearm when he left it loose. He kept himself clean shaven, unlike Araglas, who sported a thick beard and kept his hair short.

"Look at you, with your hair billowing in the winds like an elvish princeling! Adanedhel, you should be called!" Araglas had teased, pulling on the braids that held his hair.

Aranion had laughed then, but now he wondered— was he as cursed as Turambar?

 _Ai, do not be stupid_! he thought, disgusted with himself. _Rest your addled mind before it weaves another fanciful tale._

He put away the comb, and called to Lissuin, who obediently trotted towards him. He folded his cloak, placing it below his head. He covered himself with his second cloak, and burrowed his head into it. So exhausted he was that he nearly fell asleep even before his head could hit the make-shift pillow. The horse soon laid down to rest beside his master, and they lay there, untroubled into the early hours of the next morning.

Aranion woke to the cold light of the hours that preceded dawn, with stiffness in his body from sleeping on the hard dirt. He sighed, rising his torso, while knuckling the sleep out of his eyes. It would not do to set out late, for he had a long day of travel ahead of him if he intended to reach the camp of the Dúnedain in a weeks' time.

Disoriented though he was, he felt well rested and refreshed as the cold morning draught blew against his face. He completed his toilette beside the little pool, while Lissuin ate the grass the lined the ponds. Aranion produced two apples from his pack, placing one between his teeth as he cored and pitted the other, giving it to the horse.

After checking his packs and tying the saddlebags, Aranion mounted Lissuin. He spurred the horse into a fast trot. Today, he would be required to cover several leagues, and as fast as possible.

The flat, dry plains passed by him as he rode by them, mind lost in thought. He wondered how his father and brother would take the news of his eastbound quest; Araglas would be none too pleased, and neither would his father. They would think it unjust of Elrond, surely. Aranion was not sure how he felt about that himself— as the heir of Isildur, it was apparent that he did owe a debt to the fight against the Enemy, but, again, the question arose: why was he being punished for his ancestor's foolish actions?

 _Fate is strange_ , he mused, as he spurred Lissuin into a gallop, the dreary lands flying by with his thoughts.

* * *

Notes and Translations:

Hithaeglir: lit. mist-peak-line; the Misty Mountains

Daro: halt, stop

Adanedhel: lit. "Man-elf"; a title given to Túrin Turambar, protagonist of one of the darkest and most tragic tales of the First Age. Túrin was said to hold immense likeness to one of the Eldar, and he was often mistaken as so, due to his long, dark hair and proud countenance.

Turambar: lit. "Master of Fate"; the title Túrin arrogantly took upon himself.

To Atlanta: I must begin by thanking you for the review. I do not think that one could ask for so articulate a first review; I am glad to hear that you enjoyed the chapters thus far.

I warn you, in prior, that this is quite long.

On reading back, I can certainly see why you thought the finality with which everyone took the parting to be very unrealistic. You are right: the Wise, though knowledgable, are not omnipotent. I do not often think of practicalities while writing— I am a bit whimsical in that sense; while reading the Fellowship of the Ring, a line that truly stuck out to me was the closing sentence of the chapter titled Lothlórien: "And taking Frodo's hand in his, he (Aragorn) left the hill of Cerin Amroth and came there never as a living man."

I do not know why this particular line touched me, but it did, and deeply. Yes, certainly, it was unrealistic to presume that Aranion's departure was final, but there is something terribly heart-wrenching about final partings, and I am afraid that I let my fancies take over any thoughts of reality. I have made changes to the previous chapters accordingly, and I am glad that you brought it to my attention. I had an inkling that there was something quite off with these chapters, but I never could quite put my finger on it.

On the hastiness of his departure: as a Ranger, I would presume that he would always be prepared to be on the move. To undertake so magnanimous a mission is no simple Orc-patrol, I agree, but what more could the Elves have told him? They (with the exceptions of the Sons of Elrond and, perhaps, Glorfindel) rarely venture out into the Lands of Men, and if at all, they do not go into the East. If he has to take counsel, he would prefer it be with his Ranger kin. Their knowledge of the current geography, clime and threats of Eriador is great, and, most of all, Aranion is likelier to heed the advice of his birth father, foolish though it may be. He is reckless, and Elrond knows his character well. Aranion does not do well with tarrying; he would sooner get discouraged than resolute with time. As for the material aspects of preparation: I do not believe that he would be able to take much, since he is essentially carrying his life's means on his back. What he would need to survive in the Wild he has already, for he is in Imladris not for a vacation, but for a short rest until he gets on his feet again.


	5. Dalliance

A few of the locations (Rhosgobel, the Sea of Helcar, the Cuiviénen, etc) have been taken from Karen Wynn Fonstad's Atlas of Middle-earth.

Aranion refers to his father as ada, whereas his grandfather, adar. There is no known word in Sindarin for grandfather, so I am making do with the more formal version of "ada". If you have any suggestions as to what word could be substituted for it, they'd be much appreciated.

* * *

 **5.**

Over the course of six days, his journey went smoothly, though the light showers hampered his movements some. The paths were now growing steep and dangerous, and a boulder would tumble down from the snowy mountains ever so often. These he evaded deftly, for this tricksy path was well-known to the Dúnedain; in fact, it was the least deceptive of all the roads that lead to the mountains.

It was a lonely and dreary road, with little to keep him company but his dreams and the harsh whisperings of water and wind. Though nature bustled and roared, the sound of his own voice felt overtly loud as it skipped across the rough stones, and he had learnt soon not to raise his pitch in the way of song, the eerie echoes doing nothing to lighten his spirit.

He estimated that he would reach the camp in the early hours of the seventh day. This would give him plenty of time to take counsel with his father— a week or two he would tarry there, he decided. Then he would follow the line of the mountains south-westward, to the Fords of Isen. Beyond the Fords, the lands of the Calenardhon were held by Gondor, though they were prone to frequent attacks from the Easterlings. Being composed of undulating plains, it was not sheltered, and thus, more dangerous. It was not a land he had often traveled in before.

Then came the Brown Lands, through which he would enter Rhûn. This path was longer than the one through Eryn Lasgalen, but perhaps less perilous. He knew not if this path was the wisest course he could take, but he certainly did not want to attempt the High Pass. What use could he be to anyone if he met his untimely demise at the hands of an orc before he even stepped a foot East?

The mountains grew ever closer as he rode, imposing and lofty, rising from the mists and snow. The temperature also dipped with the ascent, winds becoming biting as they nipped the patch of skin exposed at his neck where his cloak was clasped.

It was still early, perhaps three hours to dawn. He had begun the day's travel in haste, since he had established a good pace the night before and did not wish to fall back. It would not take more than an hour now.

His leather-gloved hands held Lissuin's reins, urging the horse forward with soft commands. The draught blew back his hair, which he had left loose after bathing so as to avoid a headache. It streamed past him, often tumbling into his stinging eyes. But he cared not for the discomfort; the moonlit grasses flew past Lissuin's hooves as he galloped across the country with smooth steps, and Aranion was lost in the rush of adrenaline that was coursing through his veins. It was scintillating— he could taste the fresh dew laced with the heady smell of heather on his tongue, and feel it caressing his cheek as he let his head drop back for a moment.

The masses of grass muffled the thundering of Lissuin's hooves, and the darkness of the hours preceding dawn provided adequate concealment. The dew flew back into the air, sparkling as it caught the light.

He rode on for a few hours or so, with a gradually slower pace. He could already see the great tangle of trees that bordered the mountains.

As he climbed the forest path, two figures clad in garb similar to his came into sight. Both stood tall and seemed to be strong of gait. The only telling of the difference of their ages were the liberal sprinkling of silver hairs that graced one man's head. On closer glance, his companion seemed slighter, and had a less careworn face. But there were striking similarities between the both of them; they were dark haired and fair-eyed, though the younger man's gaze shone an unsettling silver while the older, moss green. Their jaws were set in almost an identical fashion, as were their noses.

Aranion brought Lissuin to a halt, as he sat straight in the saddle, his eyes lightening as the tiredness seemed to dispel from them.

"How you thunder across the country! Is it your intention to alert every foul creature in the vicinity of our location, brother?" quipped the younger man, grinning as he moved to approach Aranion.

"The grasses barely made a sound under Lissuin's hooves, I assure you," Aranion retorted, though he too felt his mouth turning upward in a wide smile. He dismounted with a swing, moving to ruffle Araglas' hair. He swatted Aranion's hand away, though his brother merely chuckled at the expression on his face.

The older man looked on fondly at the brothers. He moved to grasp Aranion's shoulder with a firm grip.

"Adar," Aranion said, smile widening as he took in the twinkling eyes of his grandfather.

"I was beginning to think that you had taken up permanent residence in the House of Elrond. We were prepared to send a Company to drag you from where you were no doubt curled up on your silken settees with one of those novels in hand," Ivordir said, voice tinged with ill-concealed amusement.

"Novels!" sputtered Aranion, "If you consider Nolmëvó's commentary on the mannerisms of the mind—"

Both Araglas and Ivordir risked a glance at each other, the younger one making no attempt to hide his mirth while Ivordir muffled his laughter with a well-timed cough.

"Am I to be greeted with naught but laughter at my expense?" Aranion questioned, sounding a bit ruffled as he untied the saddlebags.

Araglas grinned impishly in reply, while Ivordir looked at his near-overfilled saddlebags in curiosity. "Your father is leading the morning patrol. He is bound to return soon,"

"I would speak with him at the earliest," Aranion said, as they walked towards the encampment hidden behind bushels and boughs, which were drooping with the weight of the evergreen foliage. The traditional Dúnedain camp housed thirty men, though one could not tell at first glance that a camp was inhabited at all, so well concealed it was. The Rangers' camps tended to be situated under the cover of heavy foliage. Any pelts, cloaks and other garments were bundled up and tied in the trees during the days, when the men were out on patrols, and all traces of fires were meticulously stamped out each morning. Along with these measures, the campsites also shifted its location ever so often, according to need and caution. It was an efficient system, for the entire encampment could be dismantled at a mere moments' notice.

"You will wish to wash and then rest a while, I presume?" said Araglas, eyeing his brother's rampant, wind-kissed curls and dirt-besmirched face.

Aranion nodded, "I set forth much prior to daybreak,"

"Go, then. I shall take care of Lissuin," Ivordir atoned, with a wave of his hand.

Araglas took the saddlebags off his brother's shoulders as they headed towards the patch of thinning forestry that housed a part of the River deep enough for bathing. Most of the Rangers had left for the patrol, few remaining to guard the encampment. Aranion greeted them as he passed by.

"I was made to understand that you would not return ere Echuir had fully set in?" Araglas said, brows furrowed.

"There was a matter of some urgency I had to discuss with ada," Aranion replied, shaking his head softly when a fearful gleam entered his brother's expression. "There is no imminent disaster on hand; that much I can assure you," he said, smiling though there was hardly an ounce of humour in the expression.

Araglas relented with a somber nod of his head, leaving Aranion to himself.

* * *

He was shaken awake a few hours later, fragments of troubled dreams still flashing behind his disoriented eyes as he rubbed them wearily. Blistering sun, numbing rain and biting frost he still felt, and like the stubborn dregs of tea that cling to the tongue and left unpleasant aftertastes, they lingered on his skin.

The weather, in reality, was anything but what his feverish dreams had conjured— mild sunshine danced softly across the dew-smeared grasses, and a pleasant mountainous coolness prevailed in the air, the wool of his cloak shielding him from discomfort. He shuddered slightly, missing the worried look Araglas sent his way.

"Ada has returned," Araglas said, offering a hand to his brother as he lifted himself off the pallet.

They made their way towards Ivordir and Aragorn, who were immersed in conversation with another Ranger, passing by several comrades on the way, the youngest of whom grinned at Aranion, while the older ones inclined their heads in acknowledgement.

As they approached, Aragorn turned his gaze upon them. "Aranion, a pleasant surprise," he said, smiling at his eldest son.

"Gi suilon," Aranion replied, returning the smile. "I have returned to take counsel,"

"Ere you rush to squander the time, there are feathers that must be prepared for fletching— Túon, the meandering halfwit that he is, left the job half finished when he jumped like a fool to join the morning patrol. I trust that the both of you will see it done?" Ivordir butted in, ignoring the brothers' identical groans.

"Come now, we shall sit by the barks of the trees beside the river— you can tell me what weighs your mind so while we work," Aragorn said, hands on his sons' shoulders.

They soon sat to work; the brothers with their knives and feathers, and Aragorn with his sword and whetstone.

Aranion ran a finger along the length of the quill, pursing his lips as he wondered how to begin. He turned the feather over, to scrape off the crown carefully as he worked to separate them.

"The Lord Elrond summoned me to deposit a strange artifact in my trust," he said, finally breaking the silence.

"Artifact?" Araglas enquired, looking up from his own knife.

"A map," Aranion replied, pulling the aforementioned article out of his pack, which sat beside him. Aragorn untied it gently, spreading it out on his lap as he laid his sword aside, by the whetstone he had been using.

He gazed at it a few moments in silence, tracing along the fine paper with his fingertip. "Rhûn," he said, finally, fascination and wonder evident in his voice. He looked up to Aranion, curiously. "How did he come by this map? It is deeply detailed; surely, even the fabled libraries of Imladris do not hold such maps of the East?"

"And therein lies the root of my conundrum," Aranion sighed, launching into the tale of how Galadriel came by the map, and how it concerned him. His father and brother listened keenly, uninterrupting, though he could see their eyes crease in plain shock and confusion.

"What a tangled web this is," Araglas muttered, shaking his head, and grasping Aranion's hand in his.

"Indeed. It seems to me that whatever penance we Dúnedain do, we always seem to be punished for the acts of our ancestors, whether they be the Númenóreans or the Gondorians," Aragorn said, a rueful smile upon his face. "But ho, now! I am being too hasty in my judgement,"

He looked to his older son, a ruminating smile upon his face. "Nolmëvó once wrote a line that strikes true: 'the most beautiful things in the universe are the starry heavens above us and the feeling of duty within us'. They are words most prudent, indeed."

Araglas did not attempt conceal a scoff as his lips twisted into a bitter smile. "But have not the Secondborn always preferred the light of the Sun? Elf-friends though we may be, we do not speak in riddles of ages long past, of prophecies that foretell of doom— of duty! We are not the Elves; why, then, do we pretend? And what of our wants and desires? Of happiness? Are we not deserving of it? Is duty to prevent us from reaping so deserved a fruit? After all these years of torment, after we have witnessed empire after empire crumple to dust, is peace not our very birthright?

"We toil and labour until our dying breaths, spilling blood to protect those who have long forgotten the might and glory of the line we belong to, to shelter those who do naught but scorn us— for what? Why must we throw our lives away in the name of duty?" Araglas continued, voice growing louder with each word that passed his lips. He clenched his knife tightly in his hand, knuckles near white in anger.

"I will be damned before I let you walk into the very arms of certain death, brother!"

"It is truth that Araglas speaks, dear one. Your death is _inevitable_."

* * *

Translations and Notes:

Gi suilon: lit. "I greet you"


	6. Requiem

**6.**

Aranion couldn't help the indignant snort that escaped him. "And what of it? Am I not going to meet my end some day, whether it cruelly rips me apart on the morrow or creeps upon me, slowly but surely, by the next century?"

Aragorn inclined his head, looking at his son curiously. "Indeed. You have pondered much upon this, have you not?"

"As any mortal man is wont to do, I am sure," retorted Aranion, with grim humour.

Araglas looked fairly sickened by the casualness of their mentions of death and mortality.

"How can you stand to resign yourself to your own end in such a manner?" he asked, softly, though his eyes bore the deep wrath he felt.

Aranion shook his head. His brother's indignant fury shook him tremendously; it showed him just how very young Araglas still was. Perhaps there was some truth in the words. Had he not thought along the same lines often enough? But his anger had long cooled, and he now thought of the predicament with a calm mind. It did not irk him as much as it first had, nor did it invoke this same sort of self-righteousness Araglas was exhibiting.

At first he had resignedly accepted what he thought to be his allotted fate, but his grim resignation soon flared into something more meaningful: following this path meant paying homage to the very blood that ran through his veins, and honouring the sanctity of the alliances and customs of old. It was in his very identity, as one of the royal line of the Dúnedain— an identity that he'd had barely no qualms in accepting and using before, but when it came to the responsibility that was tied to it, would he shirk the burden like a coward? Like a lesser man, one who did not have the blood of Melian running through his veins?

This duty that his brother so bitterly spoke of was, in truth, beyond worldly satisfaction, and ran into the very circles of existence itself. Aranion himself, like all that lived, was but a pike in the wheel of the universe. It was strange, indeed, and perhaps a blow to his ego, but that did not diminish its truth. And while he was still bitter to some extent, his mind was not so conflicted. After all, weeks of riding unaccompanied by naught but his bitterness through barren, solitary moors had dulled its potency somewhat.

Though his little brother made a good job of hiding it, he had much yet to learn of the ways of the world. But it also moved him, this fierce anger Araglas was exhibiting on his behalf— it spoke volumes of the deep-seated love between the brothers, and acted as a balm to his weary soul.

"Brother—" Aranion began, gently, but his father beat him to the chase.

"We are both blessed and cursed, my son. Fortune plays strange, tricksy cards on us, that is true, but its root lies in something noble and beautiful— our blood, born from the union of Man and Elvenkind, is not a light burden to bear. If we are to call duty sufferance, sufferance indeed it shall be. Inevitable as it is, we must embrace the stitches we were fated to weave into Vairë's Tapestry. It is not, as you say, succumbing your very existence to an abstract force. Honour and duty coexist; one cannot thrive while the other is absent," said Aragorn, his eyes wide as they shone, as though reflecting a sky of bright, burning stars.

"There is no better teacher that time itself, Araglas. You shall live, and you shall learn," he continued, gazing at his sons with a strange intensity. "Aranion—"

Aranion nodded, almost imperceptibly, the fey light in his father's eyes mirrored in his. His father grasped his hand, fatherly pride entering his expression as the intensity of it mingled with soft love and tenderness. "I should have not expected any less. You have grown, both in thought and action, dear one. Anoriel would have said the same, were she to have been here among us,"

Aranion felt a cold, yet not entirely unwelcome memory tug at his heart at the mention of his dead mother. He had been but six summers when she had passed in childbirth, but Aranion could remember her last moments with stunning clarity. She had caught hold of one of his chilly, perspiration-soaked hands, her own feverishly hot as she murmured comfortingly to him, both for her son's benefit as well as her husband's. Anoriel had been an exemplar woman, or so they said. Most remarkably, even to her very dying breaths she had been selfless— a trait Ivordir's benevolent spirit had passed unto her.

"You will go, then?" asked Araglas, barely above a whisper. His brother nodded in reply, gripping his hand tightly. Their father laid a hand on both their shoulders, and the three of them shared sombre smiles, pained on Araglas' part, and forced on his father and brother's.

"Come, now. You shall get nowhere by moping. We have a great many things to do!" Aragorn said, rising, and sliding his sharpened, glistening sword into its scabbard. The brothers followed, their fletchings piled in their hands.

They walked a fair distance, none breaking the pondering silence that had fallen upon the group, until they reached a rocky outcrop marked by flowering scrub. Aragorn rested his boot against a jutting rock, surveying the brothers keenly.

"You will need to practice your swordplay, Aranion," he said, silencing the look of protest on Aranion's face with a stern glance. "You did not think that I would let you off so easily, did you? The East is _nothing_ like what you have experienced before. A novice has no place in such a cutthroat world. The people will not be kind— they are mercenary, and care little for another's life lest it leads to their profiteering. Nay, you shall practice both archery and swordsmanship intensely for the duration of these two weeks. We shall strategise by the watch fire every night, and work out a practical route with your map consulting Ivordir and Elenion. You shall need to weatherproof your garb, and see to your horse as well. There is much to do and little time— but we shall make the best of it, as we have always done. Go, now."

Aranion nodded mutely, and the brothers made their way to one of the high ledges that marked the ascent of the Hithaeglir. Upon it stood a stocky man, whose hair was tinted a dusky blonde, so unlike the generally darker Númenórean colouring. He held a map in his hands, and seemed to be surveying it in the bright sunlight.

"Ah, Aranion. It has been a while," the man said at their approach, hopping down from the ledge with a grace that did not betray his years.

"Elenion," he replied, inclining his head politely. Elenion was one of the best swordsmen the Dúnedain had seen in many a century. He was also a notoriously hard taskmaster, under whose vigilant eye many a young Dúnadan had learnt the arts of warfare.

"Ada has asked me to practice my swordwork," Aranion said, the faintest hint of a flush gracing his fair cheeks, though he met Elenion's gaze squarely.

Elenion merely quirked an eyebrow in response, moving to slide his sword out of its scabbard. "Come, then. We shall work on your defence first. I do not have patrolling duty until late afternoon,"

Aranion nodded, drawing his own sword out as he gripped its hilt, and dug his feet into the raw, wet mud. He deflected Elenion's first strike swiftly, and the older man smiled, parrying him with tricker blows that he was not as quick to evade, though he kept his vigilance for hours until the burning midday sun began to beat down upon his wet neck, his arms aching from exertion, nearly slumping to the floor in an undignified heap.

* * *

"I had forgotten just how _ah,_ demanding Elenion can be," grumbled Aranion as he rubbed his forearms, a faint scowl creasing his brows.

Araglas stifled a chuckle when his brother's heated glare was directed his way. "You shall grow accustomed to it,"

Aranion sat heavily upon a log beside the watch fire, muttering something about how it was not as though he had a choice in the matter. Their father joined them a few moments later, thumbing off his leather gloves as he stretched his fingers, warming them beside the ruddy glow of the fire.

Aranion wordlessly spread his map out on a piece of moleskin that was laid on the ground. His father surveyed it, tracing a route with his index finger, Aranion glancing over his shoulder. "That is the route I decided to follow— the Lord Glorfindel spoke in favour of it,"

"Yes, it is the most practical path one can traverse into the East these days," muttered Aragorn, "but it is by no means the easiest. It is littered with foul things lurking in every corner,"

They debated upon the matter of paths and routes for many an hour, indeed, it was almost routinely discussed each night by the watch fire. For nigh on three weeks Aranion practised his swordwork and archery by day, and strategised by night. He had many a rambling conversation with those he had previously exchanged naught but trifles and pleasantries with, learning much, and being moved by much more. He felt as though he was a sickly man who had been told he had mere days until he faded from the world's circles— desperate to cling onto every moment, take something out of every second, and cherish, almost jealously, all that he cared for and loved, which cursing to the high heavens the ephemeral nature of all things.

A day prior to that of his departure, Aranion was due to relinquish his right of heirship to his brother. He had discussed this matter exhaustively with Aragorn, Ivordir, Elenion, and Araglas. While Araglas was not in favour of it, he and the rest had argued that it was only logical. If he did not return from his Eastward sojourn, who would lead the Dúnedain after Aragorn? Traditionally, as eldest son, it was Aranion that the heirship fell to, but in the wake of such unforeseen circumstances, it was his obligation to formally relinquish the title to his younger brother, which, though not without a little bitterness, he had no hesitation in doing.

He gazed up at the sky, pensively. An icy drop ricocheted off his upturned nose, followed by many of the like, strands of hair plastering themselves to the sides of his face, his braid growing damp as he struggled to work his leather hood free from where it was snared by his quiver. He gave a slightly resigned smile at the grey storm clouds, which seemed to reflect his mood.  
 _Besides, it hardly matters. Have people not said Araglas would make a better Chieftain? He has the nature for it, and, ultimately, the essence of it all is the good of the governed, is it not?_

It was not as though he had any heirloom that had been bestowed upon him at birth — the slightly larger, mithril-and-diamond encrusted star-pin that signified a Chieftain was currently in Aragorn's possession— so he did not need to physically bequeath anything to his brother, but Númenórean law dictated that he seal with words his decision to relinquish heirship. The document had been drafted by Imladris' scribes, brought to the encampment by the Sons of Elrond, at the request of Aragorn. Without much ceremony the bond was sealed, and Araglas was declared the next in the Line of Isildur.

On the sealing of the bond, Araglas' eyes unconsciously fell to his brother. Aranion gestured towards the moors with a sharp nudge of his head, his expression inscrutable. Araglas followed him unquestioningly, walking a fair distance behind his brother. Aranion strode through tufts of purple heather, boot-high, the heady scents clearing his head somewhat. Apparently reaching his destination, he halted abruptly, facing the horizon with a tense façade.

Araglas caught up with him, standing slightly apart, facing a sharply dropping ravine that was filled with a mixture of melted ice and rainwater. The blackness of the depths rippled when droplets of moonlit precipitation cascaded across their surface, giving the scene a strange, fey-like atmosphere. They spoke no words; the day had mutually been one of the most important ones of their lives. For Aranion it symbolised the beginning of uncertainty, but of a strange sort of liberation, too. For his brother it was the very opposite; his path was clear, and his loyalties were staunchly tied down. Their roles had been reversed in the span of a few hours, and it deeply unnerved the both of them.

"Come, brother. You have many a long mile ahead of you. You should rest," Araglas said, softly, his hand tentative on Aranion's stiff shoulder.

He was taken aback when Aranion pulled him into an almost violent embrace, though filled with such a concentration of warmth, love and devotion, it was nearly palpable. "I have faith in the man you have yet to become, in the man you are, and in the man you were, Araglas.

"You shall be an exemplary Chieftain; of that I am most certain. You—" he seemed to want to continue, but reserved himself.

Araglas wore a pained expression, shaking his head, "Aranion...the world, it has not been kind to your soul. You said earlier that I am Ada's mirror image— why, then you, _you_ are Naneth's. Courageous beyond words, selfless to the point of fault, and noble as an Elf-lord of old.

"You were the pinnacle of everything I wished to be when I was younger; everything I am today is due to you and Ada. Whatever am I going to do, without you?" he asked, striken, voice heavy with grief.

Aranion seemed to swallow, and Araglas tightened their embrace minutely.

"I...I wish you the best," said Aranion, voice heavy with tears, pulling himself out of his brother's grasp, his high cheekbones glistening as he smiled.

* * *

Araglas was rendered speechless, tears welling up in his eyes. He let them fall, glancing at his brother's silhouette making its way towards the encampment, perhaps for the last time.

As is its way most often, sleep evaded Aranion when he was in dire need of it. He tossed and turned until he was almost ready to tear his own hair out in frustration. A few hours prior to dawn, and he had gotten but a wink of troubled sleep. He rose as the chill began to creep its icy tendrils around his limbs, shaking the numbness that had seized them. He made quick work of his toilette, saddled Lissuin, tying his newly-replenished pack to the straps of the saddlebags. Ivordir, Aragorn and Araglas did likewise, and soon the group was riding forth, towards the ascent of the Hithaeglir.

Not much was spoken to break the melancholy that had descended upon the group; the biting winds whipping through the towering evergreen trees, creating eerie wails that permeated through the sombre atmosphere. They rode for an hour, the fog casting a shroud over the scenery, which changed little albeit the rise in altitude.

Ivordir parted ways from them a few moments later— he was to join two others of the Company on a surveillance patrol. His farewell to Aranion was short, yet by no means lacking in depth of the emotions he conveyed. He did not attempt to harry Aranion with hasty spouts of questionable wisdom, as most men were wont to do at (presumably) final partings; Whatever wisdom Ivordir bequeathed to his grandsons had been doled out over a span of decades, and was meant to be pondered upon, and filed with care in the storehouses of one's mind.

All he had to say was contained within his warm smile, comforting eyes and firm touch that held pride and reassurance.

The brothers and their father continued on for many a mile. Dawn came soaked in blood; the sky gleamed with carmine rays, foreboding and grim. They each looked at the sky with pursed lips and creased foreheads, —knowing what such a gruesome, macabre red supposedly signified, but unwilling to put it into words— anxiety and grief weighing heavily upon their hearts.

Yet another hour passed by. They stopped for a moment, dismounting their respective steeds, replenishing themselves from their water skins. Though it had been but a few hours since he had set out, Aranion was nearly soaked in perspiration. His hands were chill, grime and polish collecting in the lines of his palm due to his nerve-induced cold sweats. He emptied a little water unto his cupped hands, dousing his face with it. The droplets trickled down his neck, and he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring its coolness, along with the breezes caressing his skin.

A sudden, piercing howl ripped through the scarlet sky, ringing in Aranion's eardrums, the very membranes of his being aching with the after-thrums of the predatory noise. A number of howls rose in a wicked crescendo, soon after the first, the hair on the back of his neck following suit.

Aragorn raised his eyes, grim faced. They had not expected this sudden onslaught of the droeg.

* * *

 **Have** I mastered the art of the Cliffhanger? Most probably not. Oh, well. You can't blame me for trying!

Things should pick up from here onwards; we might even meet the mysterious Rómeniel in a few chapters' time.


End file.
